


Secrets: Coma Boy

by CuddlerOfDragons



Series: Secrets [6]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25315504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddlerOfDragons/pseuds/CuddlerOfDragons
Summary: Familiar faces in Hell...
Series: Secrets [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1344382
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Secrets: Coma Boy

It wasn’t meant to _be_ like this. Why was it _different?_ He had psyched himself up, for what was coming, when that bitch Decker had shot him and his coin was gone. Of _course_ it was _gone_ , what did he expect? He broke a deal with The Devil. What had he been _thinking?_ A get-out-of-Hell-free coin, _his_ and all _he_ had to do was _not_ kill Lucifer. So, what _did_ he do? He shot and killed Lucifer, of course.

Dumb.

As he died, in the airplane hanger - where he _should_ have just taken his money, let the brat and Decker live (see how _she_ enjoyed being the dirty cop - _stealing evidence_ \- ha, fuck _you_ , sanctimonious bitch!) and flown off to his new life - he resigned himself to that quiet, empty room, that waited to have him back.

Hell.

Not to be tortured, _that_ would be too interesting; _feeling_ something, even pain. _That_ would pass the time.

No _company_ , just the inside of his own head - and wasn’t _that_ a boring place to live. No food, no drink but no hunger or thirst, either. Not in Hell, anyway but he had carried it with him, back to Earth. Raw, uncontrollable insatiability; for _everything_ that life had to offer. He had wanted to never have to go back but, at least he’d made some new memories to keep him warm…

…cramming himself with food, until his guts felt bloated…

…enjoying the family savings - money’s _boring_ , until it’s _spent_ \- converting all they had and _then_ some, into luxury, into entertainment, into the warm, secure feeling of _having_ …

…terrorising people that he knew - intellectually - that he used to love but feeling _nothing_ for them _,_ anymore. Not a _shred_ of empathy…

…fucking the little Satanist whore, as she was dying; her last, _sweet_ breath, spraying droplets of blood into his face…

…staging the scene, posing her body, so she matched the image on the coin that _actual_ Satan had given him and carving the Lord of Hell‘s name, on her back…

…Stringing up her boyfriend, so that _he_ depicted the _other_ side of the coin. _Blatant_ clues that Lucifer and Decker-bitch failed to notice…

To think he’d thought that Lucifer would be impressed.

No matter. The memories of those experiences and all the others could be revisited…

Or not.

What had gone wrong?

He looked around. It was quiet and the lights were dim but it was easy to recognise where he was.

The Paddock. _No, **please,** not **this**._

“So, what did you want to tell me?” Paolucci asked him. “Is it about Palmetto?”

“You were meant to be looking out for me, instead you let Decker sneak by you.” He said, accusingly, just like before.

“I was taking a leak. I don’t know _how_ she got there, she _wasn’t_ tailing you.”

“I asked her about that; bitch wouldn’t say.”

“She’s not gonna drop it, we’ll need a fall guy.” Paolucci moved slightly ahead of him and, just like a thousand times before, Malcolm struck.

“That’s the plan.” He said.

They’d been partners and friends, almost close as brothers but still, he’d felt _nothing_ , as he staged the suicide scene - carefully written note, gun barrel angled in Paolucci’s mouth so that, when it fired, it took out the evidence that he’d been knocked unconscious, first - _perfect_.

Re-enacting it, _now_ , he was crushed under the weight of his guilt.

No. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. This was _his_ Hell and he’d made _plans_.

He decided to revisit the Satanist girl - his first _ever_ pleasure kill - he concentrated, _hard_ , remembering how the knife had felt, slipping smoothly, between her ribs…

He was on his back and his scream had been cut off, when the knife punctured his lung. Now he could only wheeze and gurgle as he drowned in his own blood.

He stared, with terrified eyes, as the man he loved and _trusted_ , watched, avidly, as the monster dropped its pants, pulled up the white (blood stained) robe and…

Please, _no_. Bad enough to be _dying_ , without _this_ …

“Are you a slut for Satan?” The vile creature growled in his ear, thrusting harder. “Do you love _this_ as much as you love _him?”_

Helpless, terrified, doomed and - inexplicably - _female_ , Malcolm stared up into his _own_ face and found it _repellent_.

 _‘You **worthless** bastard.’ _He thought, looking up into his own eyes _. ‘You’re raping me, while I **die** , and you’re calling **me** a slut? I hope you **rot** in **Hell**._

He gets a moment of satisfaction as he breathes blood on his tormentor’s face - a last act of defiance before darkness and merciful oblivion.

This time he’s almost grateful to be back in The Paddock…

“Hello, Malkie.”

 _‘Oh, **shit**.’ _He’s so shocked, that he forgets to hit Paolucci.

The voice came from the shadows and was, unmistakably, **_Him_**.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Er…no?”

“Good, good, that’s what I like to hear.” Lucifer Morningstar strolls towards him, through the frozen Hell scene.

Malcolm looks around, it’s as if someone pressed ‘pause’.

“This is wrong.” He blurts, unable to help himself.

“Oh? You were expecting something else?”

“Quiet room.” He whispers. Lucifer smiles.

“Do you want to know a secret?” There are far too many teeth in his smile and Malcolm shakes his head, vigorously.

“N-n-no, no _sir_ , definitely not.” _‘Please leave, so I can get back to killing my best friend…’_

“The ‘quiet room‘, as you call it, isn’t _really_ Hell. It’s more like…” His eyes lose focus, as he looks for an analogy. “Like a holding cell, for suspects.” He says, pleased that he’s come up with something that an ex-cop can relate to. “You were in a coma, neither dead nor alive. You were destined to come here, when you finally shuffled off and so… “

“Quiet room.”

“You can’t be punished down here, until you’re _truly_ dead. After all, you might wake up and go on to _redeem_ yourself…” He looks at Malcolm, with an uncomfortable intensity. Then he laughs. “We both know that _that_ was never going to happen, though, don’t we. Even if you’d managed to _keep_ the coin and had a _third_ chance to get it right.”

“So… everyone that goes into a coma..?”

“Only the Hell-bound. The others… well, they hang around outside the gates… _upstairs_ , as it were…”

“So… the ones that recover and talk about..”

“Bright lights and dead relatives meeting and greeting? Yes, it’s all true.”

“But no one talks about being down _here_ …“

“They remember the _feel_ of it, though; the voracious hunger that _nothing_ can satisfy… Maze and I have seen it so _many_ times.”

“Would it help if I said I was sorry?”

“ _Are_ you?” Lucifer asks, with a smirk. No lies in Hell.

“No.” He _wasn’t_ , he’d loved every _moment_ of it. He looks around the dimly lit bar; except for _this_ part...

“Didn’t think so.” Lucifer says, as he leaves.


End file.
